


The Barns

by Fly09Fire



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellarke, Drug lords, Enemies to - pretty much stays enemies for a while, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Gang Violence, M/M, Slight Clexa, Slow Burn Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, don't hold your breath, eventually, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6976225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fly09Fire/pseuds/Fly09Fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy needs money for the Barns. If he doesn't get it, the people who own it are going to kick all the families that live there out, including him and Octavia. So he and Murphy hatch a plan. It seemed like a good idea at the time, grab as much cash as possible from the warehouse and hoof it before they catch them and use it to stay at their home. It was a good plan, a well thought out plan. But something that wasn't part of the plan... That would be the blonde Princess that refuses to get out of the get away car,</p><p> </p><p>"Finished?"</p><p>Murphy glared up from the headlock he had the sleeper in. “It’s not like you helped at all,” he grunted, elbowing the sleeper in the stomach when he tried to rip free. A retching trio of coughs left the sleepers mouth before he went limp.</p><p>“We need him awake,” Bellamy said as he stepped back, allowing Murphy to haul the wheezing man to his feet. He smirked when he saw a bruise colouring Murphy’s cheek. “Slip a shot?”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Crappy Game of Baseball Back at the Barns

Bellamy tapped his gun against the sleeping man’s forehead. When he didn’t respond a first time, Bellamy tapped him again. It wasn’t much of a gun, an old glock he’d stolen a while back, but it still fired a mean shot (he knew first hand, his shoulder rolling instinctively when he thought about it) on soda cans, anyway, but making it look dangerous was the important part. He knew how crooks worked and he knew how cops worked, and eighty percent of the job was showman ship, looking the bigger man who wouldn’t care if he took a bullet to the back or the gut. 

He was going for a third tap when a twitch of the sleepers fingers, reaching for something on the other side of the chair, stopped him.

“Murphy,” he grunted at his partner on the other side of the chair, nodding to the sleeper. 

Murphy and the sleeper dived at the same time for the gun hidden under the seat, and only Bellamy kicking the butt away from the man, the gun clattering against the wood floor, two men tussling and kicking while an irritated third stood over them, kept the sleeper from ending their plans then and there. 

“Finished?” Bellamy asked.

Murphy glared up from the headlock he had the sleeper in. “It’s not like you helped at all,” he grunted, elbowing the sleeper in the stomach when he tried to rip free. A retching trio of coughs left the sleepers mouth before he went limp.

“We need him awake,” Bellamy said as he stepped back, allowing Murphy to haul the wheezing man to his feet. He smirked when he saw a bruise colouring Murphy’s cheek. “Slip a shot?”

“Fuck you.” 

Murphy pushed the sleeper towards the door the chair was placed directly in front of, shoving his face against the rough brick wall for good measure. Bellamy rolled his eyes but let Murphy do his thing, standing at his back with his glock raised, just in case Murphy slipped another shot. The man needed no prompting. He took a key from around his neck and unlocked the door. He reached inside the door. Bellamy tensed, gun tilting up, then lowering again when a light switched on in the room. He gave himself a moment to breath, letting Murphy whoop and charge into the room, shoving the man against the wall again, bringing the butt of his pistol against the man’s skull. 

Bellamy stepped into the room, over the man, glaring at Murphy. “What happened to not hurting anyone?”

Murphy rolled his eyes, passing by Bellamy and moving further into the room. “It’s not like I killed him.”

Bellamy followed, allowing his excitement to grow past the low thrum in his fingers, building into a heavy weight in his chest that blasted his heart double time and had his blood shooting through his veins, crying his own whoops. Murphy ran to one of the many crates. He pulled an iron bar from the bag on his back and pried the top off. Bellamy barged into the space beside him, fisting the fifties and hundreds in his hands that filled the crate. There were six more crates just like that one in the room, Bellamy knew, for he’d watched the man who owned this building check each one, and Bellamy felt more than a little stupid for only bringing a backpack. 

“Holy shit.” Bellamy turned to see Murphy holding a clear bag filled with snowy powder. “He stores this shit with his cash? How stupid could this guy get?” He cackled as he began to stuff bag after bag into his backpack until Bellamy grabbed his wrist.

“I said no drugs.”

Murphy yanked his wrist back. “Relax. I’m not going to sell this at the Barns.”

Bellamy glared at him as he resumed stuffing his bag full with the drugs. “None of this is going to local drug dealers who sell to stupid kids? Kids who come to the Barns when they need work and money we don’t have.” Murphy refused to meet his eye. “And then those kids start passing them around? Work stops getting done? We give out more money we don’t have cause we gotta get clean workers? Then those men come back to the Barns, banging down doors-”

“No one’s coming to the Barns,” Murphy hissed, not backing away from Bellamy’s furious eyes. “And stop acting like you care about the rest of them. You just don’t want any of this shit getting back to Octavia.”

Bellamy would of hit him, and enjoyed it too, if they were younger, playing a crappy game of baseball back at the Barns and he’d cheated a pitch from a fast into a curve. Instead he snatched the fourth bag of powder from Murphy’s hand before he could put it in his bag and dropped it back into the crate. He didn’t lift his glare, didn’t let the fury leave his eyes, until Murphy moved away from the crate holding the drugs and rejoined him at a cash filled one. He ignored Murphy’s glower and carried on loading the cash into his bag.

A car door slammed like a gunshot. Bellamy’s head snapped up the same time as a whispered oh shit from Murphy. Men, some in cheap suits, others in tracksuits with leather jackets (Seriously, the fuck?), were leaping from their cars. All of them carried rifles in their hands and a side arm down the back of their pants. 

“We have to go!” Bellamy said, zipping up his backpack. Murphy was frantically stuffing more cash into his bag, fingers fumbling, bills raining down around his feet. Bellamy grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him around towards the door. From the corner of his eye he could see men charging towards the warehouse. “Now, Murphy!”

They charged from the room, leaping the unconscious man’s body. Footsteps from beneath echoed throughout the building. Bellamy saw Murphy heading for the stairs they’d come up on the way in. He leapt over and just managed to pull his head away before a bullet whizzed by and embedded in the wall above them. Murphy’s pale face went even paler aside from the flush rising in his cheek, the sickness rushing to his face that came from nearly being shot.

Bellamy didn’t have time for him to be sick. He pulled him along, down a corridor until they came to another staircase, thanking every god he knew that the goons were too stupid to think of blocking them off. A pop of machine gun fire had him diving for the wall, scathing along like a shadow against the sidewalk. Murphy screamed, his head ducking on reflex, the bag bouncing forwards on his back to hit the back of his neck. Bellamy reached behind him, grabbed the bag and pulled the younger boy up front. He fired a few shots off, giving Murphy time to collect himself. 

They burst from the staircase and Murphy went right, through a door way and into a ground floor room. Bellamy followed as Murphy ran for the busted window and leaped out into the day. He was surprised when he stopped to wait for him to jump through after him, then saw that Murphy had dropped his gun, probably when the goons started shooting at him. 

Bellamy made a note to call him a fuck up later, stepped out from the cover of the building, and immediately got taken off his feet by something big, black and moving. He hit the ground, jarring his shoulder.

“Oh shit!”

If he’d hit his head, he thought he would of imagined the female gasp. He jumped up, only letting himself register the ache in his hip and ribs, and got a look at what had hit him. A girl, blonde hair pulled into a bun and sunglasses hiding her eyes, sat behind the wheel of some kind of sports car, her mouth a wide. Then,

“Idiot! I could of killed you!” 

Bellamy would of been surprised if he wasn’t already gambling his life on their getaway. For once, Murphy wasn’t wasting time. He leaped into the back of the convertible, thumping on the seats and screaming at the girl to drive. Bellamy followed, diving into the front seat.

“What’s going on?” the girl asked as Bellamy pulled the glock. It immediately shut her up.

“You’re coming with us,” Bellamy growled while Murphy continued to scream at her to drive. 

The girl’s hands shook as she put the car in reverse, tearing down the track the way she’d come, but she looked pissed off, and if Bellamy had time to think he’d be impressed. As she backed into the road a shot split the air. Bellamy and Murphy ducked, the car stuttered.

“Keep driving!” Bellamy yelled and jammed the gun into the girls side. 

The car roared to life again as more shots filled the air. And then the firing just stopped, the air dead aside from the rev of the car and Murphy’s low cursing, smooth, the only silky sound to leave his lips. 

Bellamy didn’t dare chance a peek above the seats as the car rocketed out of the warehouse bay and disappeared down the road.


	2. Where the Poor People Shop

“Lower your guns!”

Pike wrenched the gun down before man he’d left guarding the door (what was his name? Mcbege? Something like that,) could take a shot at the retreating black convertible. The rest of his men listened, but (El Heffe? He looked foreign,) glared at him. Pike took the gun out of his hands, passing the shotgun to the closest man to him, before turning back on the kid they’d left to guard the warehouse.

“Do you want to be the one to tell Jaha that not only did you let two thieves get away with his money, but you also shot his business partners step-daughter as well?” He was waving the gun in his hand for good measure, and he watched the Kid’s eyes dart to and from the barrel. Pike watched as whatever his names face (He should remember at least once, not that the idiot deserved it), fell, then hardened up.

“Let them?” what’s his name asked, rolling his eyes, and Pike immediately didn’t feel sorry for the kid any more. “They attacked me,” he muttered, turning away before he thought Pike could take the last word.

Pike hated that Jaha would hire any petulant little shit of the street to save a few bucks. Shit like this happened. But, he supposed as he pulled the chamber back on his pistol, it meant he got to shoot their brains out when they inevitably fucked up. The kids body hit the floor before the echo of the gunshot rang out. Pike spared it a glance as he reached for his phone.

“Adios, Shit for brains.” Pike gestured to one of the guards between opening his phone and hitting speed dial. “Clean this up.” To the rest of the men. “Get the cars.”

The phone picked up on the second ring. “Pike, speaking. There’s been trouble at the Warehouse, but there’s something else first. Yes it’s more important.” He rolled his eyes, glad Jaha couldn’t see him. “Okay. Two punks broke in. I’m not sure what they got away with though.” He waited through five minutes of being called incompetent before carrying on. “There’s more, sir. Something more important. I know your merchandise is important but this affects it as well. Kane’s kid. Yeah, the one that’s not his kid, she got caught up in it. No, she’s not dead, but she’s gone. The punks car jacked her as she was coming in.” He heard Jaha curse under his breath, and realized he’d never heard the man curse in all the years he’d worked for him. Jaha spoke to someone else, Pike couldn’t quite make it out, but she sounded pissed in that scary hold your balls and smile while she twisted kind of way. Then Jaha came back on the line. He listened to his orders. “Understood. No survivors. If there are witnesses?” He set his jaw, muttered another ‘Understood’ then hung up.

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy sat resolutely in the front seat. Behind him he could hear Murphy going through the bags. Sometimes he’d utter a soft litany of curses, smooth as honey and vulgar as a pissed sailor on leave, then go back to rummaging. Bellamy wished he could be as vocal as Murphy at this point, at least have something to say. It meant the kid was thinking, whereas all Bellamy could do was stare blindly ahead, his arm hanging over the side of the car, swaying in the breeze but not quite catching it. Not like Octavia used to do whenever he got delivery duty and he’d bring her along. He’d sit her down in the front seat of the Barns battered truck, buckle her seatbelt for her because he knew treating her like a child pissed her off (and she knew that he knew that she hated it). She’d stick her tongue out at him, he’d chuckle, and drive them to the markets to hand out the produce. The guys at the Barns liked it when O came along as well, when she was younger, anyway. The starving little girl emptied the baskets quicker than any sad looking teen or old man so skinny you could see his ribs. 

Bellamy tapped the side of the car, getting the girl who was driving attention. She’d yelled at them for the first few minutes of driving, demanding they get out of her car, but when she threatened to simply stop driving it had only taken the wave of Bellamy’s gun to get her going again. She hadn’t spoken since then, and when Bellamy tapped again and she still didn’t turn, he realized she was purposefully ignoring him.

He checked the roads they were driving down, trying to name the streets but they were not ones he recognised. The houses were too big, gated and fancy. They had front gardens. Who was rich enough to have two gardens? He looked back at the girl. Hair perfectly blonde, a sparkling necklace hanging low, a jacket without holes that looked suspiciously new.

She was the kind of girl that could afford a front garden. 

Bellamy cocked the gun. The girl visibly stiffened, but she kept driving. Behind him, Murphy had paused his rummaging. “You wouldn’t be taking us home, would you, Princess?” Bellamy asked in the scummiest voice he could muster. Thoughts of darkness, what people who were sick, would say to get their way, all those people he’d refused to let Octavia watch on Late Night television with the older kids, documentaries on psychopaths and family killers. “Cause, I’m sure Murphy and I are just not the type to bring home to mommy and daddy.” He let the gun dance in his hand for good measure, barrel going this way and that before resting on her again. “Unless you have stuff there you want to add to our collection?”

The girl swerved at the next right, taking the car down a side road, before turning back onto main, the opposite way they’d just come. Her face was screwed up, like she was trying not to cry, or be sick, or curse them so badly Murphy would blush. Bellamy couldn’t tell, and he didn’t care.

“Nice try, Princess.”

“Just tell me where you want to go,” she said, her voice cracking at the end. So she could be scared. It would of made Bellamy feel a little bad, had he not been impressed with how far she’d held out.

“Do you know the markets? They’re off main street after the overpass and down Burrows. Left at the junction.” Then, because he was an asshole. “Where the poor people shop.”

“I know the markets,” the girl bit at him and moved to the middle lane.

They drove in silence for a little while. Bellamy would of closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the breeze running through his hair, but he didn’t trust Murphy to keep an eye on the girl while he did, and he didn’t feel like her going Thelma and Louise on them once they came to the overpass. So he continued to stare ahead, his hand down the side of the car, fluttering every now and then with the breeze.

The girl pulled up on a side street, the markets one arched alleyway away. Maybe it was because she didn’t know the markets as well as she liked to believe, or maybe she thought he’d been serious when he threatened to shoot up her house, and didn’t want anyone else taking those bullets. Bellamy supposed it was a good thing she believed him. He pulled out his wallet and turned to Murphy, handing him a couple of twenties. The backpack stayed closed at his feet.

“Go get us some food.” When Murphy hesitated, Bellamy pushed the bills at him. “Now.”

The girl watched the exchange, her brow pitched in the middle, her bottom lip jutting out just the slightest, and something about knowing she was thinking about them made Bellamy’s skin crawl with nerves.

Murphy took the bills, muttering for Bellamy to not do anything stupid, then leapt out of the car and moved towards the alley. He pulled his hood up as he passed under the archway, looking every bit the suspicious scum Bellamy had hoped he be smart enough to know not to look like. He knew he should of brought Miller, but he couldn’t of risked his life when he was finally getting close to the new boy that had just moved to the Barns. It wouldn’t of been fair, plus the boy was good with his hands, while all Murphy seemed to be good at was running his mouth and sometimes fixing the truck when it broke down.

As soon as Murphy was out of sight, Bellamy opened his own door, but not before leaning over and popping the key out of the ignition.

“Hey,” the girl protested as he got out of the car, came around to her side, and opened her door. “Little late to be a gentleman,” she spat in a way that had Bellamy thinking she might not of been as afraid as he’d believed.

“Get out,” he ordered.

“Excuse me?” the girl asked, settling more in her seat, like some instinct in her to piss him off.

“I’m letting you go. Get out,” Bellamy growled through gritted teeth. “Go.”

“No.”

That surprised him, but he hoped he did a good job of not letting that show. “What do you mean ‘no’?” This was his first kidnapping, but he was pretty sure the captive never refused being released.

“This is my car. You go,” the girl said, then stared straight ahead, like that was the end of the argument, like he and Murphy would be happy to walk the rest of the way back to the Barns with a backpacks full of cash. He’d understand if this was the truck from the Barns. That was their only truck and he’d go down fighting before he let someone make off with it, but this girl probably had two more cars just like this one.

“I’m the one with the gun,” Bellamy growled, lifting his shirt up where the gun was tucked into his pants for good measure. “I know breaking up the set might clash your outfits, and I mean this when I say I couldn’t give two shits, so get out of the car, Princess.”

The girl looked at the gun, then back up at Bellamy. “I’m not giving you my car.” Then went back to staring straight ahead.

He could do it, and he was considering it. One bullet, one quick shimmy to get her body out of the driver’s seat, and he and Murphy could be halfway back to the Barns before anyone found her body. It was tempting when he thought about what he was bringing back. All those clothes for Octavia he could buy. He could put her through school, hell, he could go back, finish his shitty community college degree. They could have so much more if he did it.

But this Princess was the one who came from the world where people killed for things, and he came from the world where his hands bled and his back ached.

He slammed the car door, taking satisfaction from her flinch, and reached inside, snatching for her handbag sitting beside her feet. She was smart enough not to stop him as he went through it, didn’t make a sound as he tossed out make ups, tissues, a hair brush. She glared when  he pocketed her purse and phone. “For our expenses,” he sneered back, then went back to what he was doing, eventually finding a note pad. There was no pen, inconsistent little brat, so he picked up one of the many discarded eyebrow pencils.

O, can’t make it home tonight. Don’t leave the Barns until next delivery day. Be on it. I’ll meet you at the Markets – Bellamy.

He folded the note up and left the girl in the car, confident she wasn’t so stupid as to run off or try to get someone to help her. He jogged to the markets, and walked around like it was just another day. He smiled at the vendors who were there all week, high fived some kids, and kept on walking. He had no idea where Murphy was, probably chatting up that girl he always made excuses to come see, the girl who ran an old junk stand near their produce. Sure enough, Murphy was there as he walked up, leaning against her table and staring at her like the spattering tattoo on her face was the stars and her eyes were moons. It was weird to see he could be something other than what Octavia had dubbed ‘a Slime ball’.

Bellamy let him be, going instead to the greying man who ran Sinclair’s fruit stand. They’d always park the truck by him. Sinclair was a good guy, and went with it when they offered deals with his produce and theirs. Made the bills roll faster, as he’d always said. Bellamy shook his hand as he approached.

“Bit early for you boys, isn’t it? I don’t think poor Emori could handle John two days a week,” Sinclair joked in way of greeting. Bellamy chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. John said something and Emori was forcing herself not to smile.

“I think he’s growing on her. It’s been five minutes and she has yet to tell him to go away.” Bellamy smiled, pulling the note out of his pocket, ready to get down to business then get out of there. “I was actually just passing through and needed to drop this off. Octavia will be coming by on Sunday, can you give this to her?” he asked, handing the note over.

Sinclair took it, looked about to open it, then stopped himself, looking up at Bellamy instead. “You okay, son?”

Bellamy didn’t like people calling him son, but he forced a smile anyway. “Yeah, just got a job upstate and wanted to let O know when I’d be back. Still can’t afford two phones so this is the best I got until I find a payphone.”

“You didn’t tell her about the job before you took it?” Sinclair asked, his wrinkled brow wrinkling even more.

Bellamy fought to keep his easy smile intact, shrugging to get those point three extra seconds to think. “I didn’t know I got it until this morning, didn’t want to get her hopes up.”

Sinclair regarded him for a few more moments, then tucked the note in his breast pocket. “I’ll make sure she gets it.” He then turned to his cart and handed Bellamy and bag full of cherries. “Here, first of the season, for the road.” Bellamy went for the girls purse in his back pocket, but Sinclair held up his hand. “Free of charge.”

Bellamy hated charity, but he also knew a free meal (If you could call one bag of cherries split between two – no three – people a meal) was a gift in itself. He smiled and took the bag. “Thank you.”

“Just... watch yourself while you’re out there,” Sinclair said, his dark eyes seeing more than Bellamy would of liked. All that wisdom for the elders crap wasn’t far off when it came to Sinclair, who’d probably been too smart for his own good when he was Bellamy’s age.

“I will,” Bellamy said. He dipped his head in thanks (the words always left a sour taste on his tongue) and moved over to Murphy, grabbing him by his collar. “Pack it in, Murphy. We’re going.”

He ignored Murphy’s protests, dragging him away from Emori’s junk stand and back into the main market square. One hard jerk and Bellamy heard something clink against the ground. Murphy yanked free and jumped on the item, but not before Bellamy caught a glimpse of the metal chick on the ground.

“You bought another one of her sculptures?” he asked. Emori liked to make and sell her own hand crafted... things. Out of anything she could find, some ugly farm animal, river animal (Bellamy guessed she liked animals) would be sitting on the table with all the other junk.

Murphy’s cheeks coloured as he stuffed the chick back into his back pack. “It was on sale, left over from Easter.” His cheeks coloured even more at Bellamy’s smirk. “It was taking up space on her stand. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Ask her out like a human being,” Bellamy said, then carried on walking.

“Asking a girl out and asking ‘your place or mine?’” – Bellamy didn’t appreciate the bad imitation of his voice – “are not the same things.”

“Gets the job done, either way,” Bellamy muttered. He stopped and turned around, facing Murphy’s glaring. “Where are those twenties I gave you.” Murphy’s face fell a little. “You used one to buy that sculpture.”

It wasn’t a question, and to his credit, Murphy didn’t deny it as he gingerly fished out one twenty, then seventeen dollars and fifty cent from his pockets. Bellamy rolled his eyes, snatching the money back and pocketing it. “Unless you plan on eating that chick, next time use your own money.”

“What’s the big deal? We have plenty now,” Murphy said, following as Bellamy approached the bread stand.

“That money isn’t for us,” Bellamy said through the smile he gave to the plumpish middle aged woman behind the stall. It had been her daughter last week, red hair like her mother, none of the plump but the best kind of apatite, and Bellamy hoped that didn’t mean a denial in service from the family business.

It was Murphy’s turn to roll his eyes. “It kind of his, dude.” – Bellamy frequently hated that he was twenty three and in charge of teenagers – “What’s wrong with taking a cut for ourselves? We did the work, call it a hazard fee.”

“No,” was all Bellamy said as he took the rolls from the woman, paid, and wished her a good rest of the day, adding a wink that made her blush (like daughter like mother, apparently) then turned to go.  

A black SUV pulled into the markets, six men piling out, dressed in cheap suits, or track suits. One man had a phone pressed to his ear, skin the colour of his coffee leather jacket. He felt Murphy stiffen beside him.

Bellamy almost dropped the rolls. “Oh shit.” The man chose that moment to look up and his eyes locked with Bellamy’s. “Run!” Bellamy yelled as the man dropped the phone into the same place he seemed to magically pull a gun from.

Bullets popped, screams littering the air like the casings. Bellamy and Murphy ran for the alley. One scream cut out as a shot split the air. Bellamy’s stomach rolled but he pushed on. He couldn’t stop seeing the woman behind the bread cart. He’d been standing directly in front of her. Had they fired on sight? He had to push it away. If he thought he would look back. But he did anyway, unable to bear the thought of taking that girl’s mother away. Before he could get a look a bullet thunked into the stone wall beside his head. Chips burst into his face, slicing his skin, one getting in his eye. He cried out, pain, fear, he couldn’t tell, and ran half blind down the alleyway.

The girl was still in her car. She’d picked up the mess Bellamy had made, save for one lipstick that had rolled under the car. She was watching the alleyway, flinching with each gun fire that echoed, each scream that tore the air.

“What happened?”

Bellamy ignored her, jumping back into the car. Murphy was in the back, ducking below the seats. “Go!” Bellamy yelled, slapping the dashboard. “Now! Now! GO! GO!”

The girl didn’t bother coming out the way they’d come in, just tore down the road. The wheels screeched. A tube of lipstick popped under the weight of the tire, plastic and gunk sliming the road. Bellamy glanced round the side of the car with his good eye. The coffee man was yelling something at the other goon, holding the barrel of the gun towards the ground, and this time Bellamy realized, as they rounded the corner and flew down Burrows, that it was the second time the shooting had been called off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some people wanted me to change the tags, but I'm not going to. This story incorporates a little Clexa so the Clexa tag stays. Otherwise I'd be miss-informing which would be an actual problem.
> 
> As always, leave a comment guys! Can't wait to hear what you have to say!


	3. Negasonic Teenage Warhead

Lexa stood amongst what remained of the Wednesday markets. The outlining carts were all intact. She’d thought that the call in to the station had been a fluke, or someone had been caught nibbling on the berries again. But as she walked further in she smelt the destruction before she saw it. A metallic tang, something she’d never associated with the markets fresh scent that changed from cart to cart, sharp and tangy from the fruit to musky and thick from the butchers.

A tinkling by her foot had confirmed her fears, and she bent to pluck the bullet casing in her gloved hand. It was from a rifle, definitely automatic. Hundreds more littered the area, close to an open parking area for passing shoppers. Gunpowder tainted the air like the blood that stained the ground. As far as Lexa knew, three were dead and many more were injured, too many, the paramedics hadn’t finished with all of the victims yet to place a number.

“Makes you sick.” A cop came up on her right. In his hand was an apple that had taken one of the bullets, a hole clean through the middle that Lexa could look through if she wanted. “Try not to blow chunks over the crime scene, rookie. It’s all evidence now.”

The cop was older than Lexa by a few years. Then again, everyone down at the station was older than Lexa. The cops who had yet to make detective were older than her, and she could feel the animosity they held as well as she could feel her own contempt each time they called her rookie. It was the first time in years she’d been made to feel self-conscious about her age. Back in school age had been everything. Who was older, more grown up, more mature. To Lexa, age had never defined who she was, how she held herself, but being reminded of it constantly had become unbearable after everyone around her turned twenty one before she did. She’d just been a cop back then, but they’d still treated her with the same respect from when she was seventeen and they were eighteen.

The minute she’d been made Tennessee’s youngest detective, it become high school all over again. She would turn off the radio whenever that Bowling for Soup song came on because she did not appreciate the irony.

Lexa turned to look up at the cop. “It is. You should really be wearing gloves.”

The cop scowled at her. He made a point to drop the apple, letting it splatter on the ground. Lexa wanted to roll her eyes, but knew that relationships between cops and detectives were already fragile, and he seemed to think she was high and mighty enough as it was.

“Have you set up the blockade?” Lexa asked, trying to be diplomatic.

It didn’t work. The cops face grew darker. “Of course we’ve set up the blockade. We’re not idiots.” He gestured over to a group of police loitering around the set up yellow tape. Some were keeping civilians back. One was talking to a woman with mousy brown hair and a bandage wrapped tightly around her arm. She was cradling it and shaking, her mouth moving a mile a minute.

Shock. Lexa was glad she wasn’t the one dealing with it. She’d never been good at that part of the job.

She realized too late that the cop was still talking to her. He grabbed her shoulder and yanked her around to face him again. “If you’re done spacing out Detective...”

“Krews,” Lexa filled in for him.

“Crews? Like that actor?” the cop asked, laughing as he looked her up and down, like he expected her to sprout another ten inches and turn into a muscle bound black man.

She pulled her badge out and flipped it open, the silver shining brightly compared to the dull shield sewn on the cops breast. “No. Krews. With a K, it’s different,” she said, and couldn’t keep the irritated tone out of her voice. Another memory from school flashed before her eyes, and it had taken years before she could listen to that damned piano song again.

The cop glanced at her badge, but at her tone his face turned from a sweaty pale to a deep purple. “Don’t think you can pull rank on me, you little brat.”

“I wasn’t,” Lexa said calmly as she put her badge back on her hip. “I was simply correcting your mistake on my last name.”

“So now all cops are stupid, huh?” the cop snapped. A vein on his neck was starting to stick out, but Lexa guessed that recommending he lower his stress levels would only make things worse. “What station are you with? I’m filing a complaint with your captain abou-”

“On what grounds?” Anya walked into the market square. Lexa straightened her back and lifted her chin as she came over, but the cop’s glower didn’t falter.

“Disrespecting an officer of the law,” he snarled, pointedly glaring down at Lexa, before looking back at Anya. “You can tell the captain that the kid his unit is babysitting was mouthing off, disrupting a crime scene and contaminating evidence.”

Anya raised an eyebrow, but other than that she didn’t move a muscle. Lexa was just as still beside her, waiting for whatever she was going to say. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything on me right now to take your complaint, officer,” Anya began in a clipped tone, but before the cop could interrupt, she carried on. “But I can assure you that twenty five years of running my unit hasn’t destroyed too many of my brain cells.”

The cop paled on the spot, the purple draining from his face faster than grape soda poured down the sink, and Lexa had to fight off her smirk as he turned and bumbled away, rejoining the cops at the yellow tape. All traces of it disappeared though when Anya turned her eyes on Lexa, the eyebrow still raised. Lexa opened her mouth to speak, but the Captain simply held up her hand.

“Save it. I could hear him from the medical set up.” She let out a long sigh, then lowered her sharp eyes to level with Lexa’s. “Why do you let idiots like that talk to you in that way?”

Lexa looked at the floor. “The job is more important. Let them huff and puff. As long as I get the answers, put the bad guys away, what does it matter?”

Anya looked as if she wanted to say something, then shook her head. “Tennessee’s youngest,” she says, as if she can’t quite believe it. But Lexa doesn’t feel insulted. Anya chose her, and out of all the unit captains, Lexa was honoured to be chosen by a legend like Anya. She knows Anya’s teasing is only good nature, but she can’t help but feel like she’s missing something from it.

Anya straightens, looking past Lexa and to the woman now sitting on the step of the ambulance. She has a cup of something clutched in her hands, trembling so violently it looked like it could spill at any moment. “Go talk to her,” Anya instructs, turning on Lexa’s horrified face. “She was working today. Right in the centre. She shouldn’t of survived, yet she’s one of the few that did. The officers couldn’t get anything that made sense out of her, but I want you to try. You’re smarter than them.”

And then she’s gone, walking off to examine another part of the markets. Lexa stares after her for a few moments, contemplating how bad her punishment would be if she pretended she hadn’t heard Anya. She decides it isn’t worth it and, slowly, approaches the woman.

“M’am, I’m detective Kews,” she begins on approach, and the poor woman almost falls off of the step from how much she jumps. Lexa feels guilt crawl up her throat, and she has to clear it before continuing. “You can call me Lexa,” she says and attempts a smile. It must of been a good one, because the woman calms, her jitters lessening slightly. “You were working today, correct? I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?”

The woman nods, looks down at her cup. On inspection, Lexa sees its coffee and it’s untouched. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out some sugar packets, offering them to the woman. “Local precincts never get it right, no matter how many times you tell them,” she says and tries the smile again.

The woman takes the sugars, her hand hesitant at first. She rips open on and pours it into the coffee. She hands the other one back after an experimental sip and Lexa tucks it away again. The one takes a longer sip, some of the tension melting away.

“I-I don’t remember a lot of what happened,” she starts in a small voice. “I was the only one working today. My-My daughter, Roma, she usually helps me but she didn’t want to get up this morning. She’d been out last night an-” The woman suddenly stopped, flushing as she looks down at her coffee again, and Lexa could only assume this Roma wasn’t twenty one.

“Kids will be kids,” Lexa says. The woman smiled and relaxed again.

“Anyway... I was on my own. There was nothing different about today. The regulars came. Orders were collected, and I got the tray of sweet samples ready for the kids.” She gave a watery laugh, and Lexa shifted uncomfortably when she saw the sheen over the woman’s eyes. “A regular came over, two, actually. One was a boy Roma always talks about, and I could see why. Very handsome. He bought some rolls...” Her voice went quiet. When she began to shake again, Lexa took the woman’s hand and squeezed it. While the action felt foreign to Lexa, the woman smiled. “It was like he’d seen a ghost. He just took off. And then the bullets started. The-The one that hit me, it would of been much worse if the other boy hadn’t followed his friend.”

Lexa made a note to check among the injured. That boy may of seen something. Or known something. Bolting from a crime scene wasn’t something to be over looked. He could of been a witness or he could of been the target. She was brought back by the woman again, her tone suddenly frantic.

“They just kept shooting. I don’t know what happened to those two boys, they just bolted, and then it was like the sky was falling. My Roma could of been here. Oh god, she could of-”

She was becoming hysterical, so Lexa gently squeezed her hand again. “M’am? M’am, stay with me. It’s all over now. Roma is at home nursing her hangover and you are alive.” It seemed to work. “I only have one more question, then we can let you go see her.” The woman nodded. “Who was the boy you sold the rolls too?”

The woman gulped, her hand trembling around the Styrofoam cup, and hesitated. Lexa really hoped they weren’t dealing with one of those ‘the community sticks together’ towns. Then the woman seemed to find her resolve, and she said. “His name is Bellamy Blake.”

* * *

“Pull over! Pull over!”

The girl swerved the car to the right. They came up beside the curb of a gas station, before the start of a long bridge so high Bellamy could hear the seagulls screeches echoing as they passed underneath. Below there was nothing, dropping away until a wide river flowed by. The gas station had a diner built in on one side with an outside seating area. A good as place as any, scenic, probably a nice place to get a burger and relax before you filled up and moved on.

But a burger was the last thing on any of their minds as Murphy leapt from the back of the car, ran to the side of the bridge and vomited over the edge. It looked like the seagulls were getting a treat today too. Bellamy waited until the girl put it in park before he popped the key out of the ignition and got out of the car. It seemed Murphy had finished as he hauled himself around and sank to the floor, his back against the railings. Bellamy knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re okay, man, it’s all right,” he repeated in the best soothing voice he could muster, one he remembered using on Octavia when she was still just a kid.

Murphy weakly shrugged Bellamy's hand off his shoulder. “It’s not okay. They shot at us. At the people at the market.” Murphy met his eye, leaning slightly into where Bellamy’s hand had slipped down his back. “What if they’d shot at us while we were by Emori?”

“They didn’t, and now it’s over,” Bellamy said in the firmest voice her could gather. It hadn’t been Emori, but Bellamy couldn’t stop thinking about Roma’s mother, the guilt and bile churning in his stomach at the thought of being the one responsible for taking that young girl’s mother away from her.

He didn’t notice the door slamming. The sun vanished as the girl appeared over them. “You said they shot people?” she said, voice hard as she glared down at them. Bellamy opened his mouth, but she wasn’t finished. “And don’t lie to me, I could hear it from the car.”

“Yes, Princess, they shot people!” Bellamy snapped as he stood up. He had a good half a foot on her, and he used it as he got in close. “They didn’t care who they hit, as long as they hit us, until we got in that car with you. So that makes me wonder, just who the hell are you? What makes them stop shooting at us every time we get near you.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open. “Are you saying this is all my fault? You’re the ones that stole from Marcus’s warehouse!”

“Marcus?” Murphy rasped, pushing himself to his feet. He tried his best to look as imposing as Bellamy, but his pale face had lightened even more and his eyes looked like hollow slits in his face. “How do you know who Kane is?”

The girl glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, then tilted her chin up at Bellamy. Bellamy almost saw red, the little brat thought she was better than them for having this information over them. He yanked the gun from the back of his pants and held it up under her chin.

“Talk, Princess, before we make you.”

She started trembling, but to her credit she didn’t blink as she stared right back at him, then glanced at the gun under her chin. Her eyebrows furrowed. She lifted a hand to the one holding the gun. “You’re bleeding,” she said.

Without thinking, Bellamy passed the gun to his other hand and let her open his fingers. Bright red blood coated his palm, sticky and thick, yet until she’d pointed it out he hadn’t noticed. Without hesitation, the girl used her sleeve to wipe at it, looking for the source. He flinched, then realized it didn’t hurt at all.

“That’s not my blood,” he said, slow at first, then felt his stomach freeze as Murphy let out a woozy “Bellamy...” beside him.

He whipped around, forgetting about the girl, forgetting about the gun, and grabbed Murphy’s arm as the boy collapsed back against the railings. He spun him around and ripped the backpack off his backpack before wrenching up his bloodstained shirt.

A graze, nothing more than a fucking bullet graze, had sliced the skin of Murphy’s shoulder. The wound oozed slowly, barely anything at all now, and Bellamy felt his relief hit him harder than that time one of the horses had kicked him back at the Barns. He even let the girl push him aside to exam Murphy’s shoulder.

“You’re fine.... but the wound is funny,” she said, gently poking at it. Murphy hissed another curse but she wasn’t phased in the slightest. “They were shooting at you, but this looks like it came in from the side.

Bellamy looked at the wound again, and while his stomach rolled, he could see she was right. He took a look at Murphy’s backpack, and noticed a hole beside the shoulder strap. He opened it up, rooting around inside. Murphy and the girl looked up in alarm when he started chuckling. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.”

Before their eyes, he fished out the metal chick, its wing hanging off on one side with a very specific shaped dent right in the centre. Murphy’s sickly eyes lit up for a moment, his own chuckle leaving him. “Best three bucks I ever spent,” he managed to say, before he collapsed back against the railing.

The girl pulled his shirt back down and got his arm over her shoulder. “Help me with him,” she said, and Bellamy didn’t hesitate to move to Murphy’s over side.

He followed her lead over to the diner, and helped her place Murphy in one of the chairs. He hissed as he sat back, so the girl took her jacket off and used it as a makeshift pillow for his back, before disappearing inside the diner. Just as Bellamy realized his mistake of letting her go in there alone and alert the diner owner on who was sitting outside his restaurant, the girl returned moments later, her hands filled with kitchen towel, three menus and a pitcher of water. She pulled up another chair behind Murphy and lifted his shirt again.

“Hold this up.” It wasn’t a request, and as much as Bellamy hated that this girl thought she could give them orders, she seemed to know what she was doing, and his being an asshole would only keep Murphy from feeling better. He still glared at her the entire time she worked, cleaning Murphy’s back then fastening a makeshift bandage across his shoulder with the kitchen towel. When she was done, she handed him and Murphy a menu each. “Order something.”

“What?” Bellamy asked as Murphy pulled his shirt back down.

“Order something or get out,” the girl said, but Bellamy got the feeling she was repeating what the guy inside had said, so he scanned the menu and settled on a BLT when a waitress with a shaved head and nose piercing came out to take their order. The girl ordered a milkshake but Murphy declined, saying he was feeling car sick. Luckily he was still looking green enough for the waitress to let it go, and she disappeared back inside.

“I hope you don’t expect us to be paying for your food,” Bellamy muttered. He wasn’t happy about having to buy anything they didn’t need.

“I imagine it will be my treat since you still have my purse,” the girl sneered back.

Bellamy let a grin he didn’t particularly feel, just to remind her he was an asshole (since pissing him off seemed to be her hobby as well), sneak across his lips as he pulled her purse from his back pocket. “Good point.” He set it on the table between them. “But before I decide whether or not to give Negasonic Teenage Warhead a colossal tip, you should finish what you were saying about Kane being your stepfather, Princess."

If looks could kill Bellamy would of been dead long before his BLT was placed in front of him. The girl didn’t say anything until the waitress left, then took a long sip of her milkshake, Bellamy pretty sure she did it just to drag this out and piss him off even more.

“Marcus married my mom about a year after my dad died.” Bellamy could detect a little venom in her voice, but didn’t interrupt. “I can only assume you know him. He owns an antiques company with his partner Thelonious Jaha. They make replica’s for clients or buy and acquire authentic pieces for heavy paying clients.” She took another sip of her milkshake. Bellamy ripped at the plastic wrapping of his sandwich. “So, what did you two steal? Some of the Egyptian jugs they found last month?”

Bellamy and Murphy shared a look. “I don’t think you’ve got the right Marcus Kane, Princess,” Bellamy said.

The girl looked confused before schooling her face back to that derisive scowl. “I know for a fact I do. One can only have so many conversations about playing cards from the 1770’s before they want to shoot themselves.”

Murphy snorted. Bellamy raised an eyebrow and grabbed Murphy’s backpack from under the table, opening and shoving it towards the girl. “We picked this up from Kane and Jaha’s warehouse this morning. You were there,” he tacks on as the girl peeks inside the bag, then recoils at the sight of the bags of cocaine. He takes the bag back and zips it up. “One of many things Kane likes to sell his clients, I’m sure. That’s pretty high security for fake antiquities.”

“You’re wrong,” the girl said, but her voice wobbles.

“Who do you think those men shooting at us where?” Murphy demands. “What did you think we were stealing?”

“I know who they were!” The girl cried, desperate now. “Kane doesn’t sell drugs. He sells fake pottery to school exhibits and libraries, and those men were his security!”

“The proofs in the pack, Princess,” Murphy snarked. “And don’t tell us he doesn’t sell this shit, cause half the time it ends up back at the Barns.”

“Shut up, Murphy,” Bellamy snapped, but it’s not harsh, more like a warning, and Murphy doesn’t question it or answer back. They don’t need Kane and Jaha knowing that their workers are as hooked as their clients.

The girl remained silent, staring into the remains of her milkshake. Bellamy lent back in his seat and picked up one half of his BLT. The bread was soggy from the tomato and the bacon was limp and cold. He eats that half, then wraps up the other. He learnt a long time ago that food was just food and that being fussy meant a night with hunger pains so bad you could barely sleep. He put the half a sandwich in his backpack, then lent his elbows on the table. The girl eyes darted up, and she must of seen something she didn’t like, because they go wary. The reaction pleased Bellamy and he smirked.

“So, if what you’ve told us is anything to go by, if Kane’s really your step dad, that means your mother is Abigail Griffin, right Clarke?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave a comment guys!


	4. Daddy Kane's Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. I'm glad you're enjoying the fic, usually I plan but this one I'm kind of free writing to see how it goes. If you want to let me know what you think of a free-written piece, drop a comment and tell me how you're finding it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Clarke stared at them, mouth agape, and Bellamy would be lying if he said he didn’t feel an immense amount of sick satisfaction at the horror slowly dawning on her face. But she caught his eye and shut it off, straightening in her seat and holding his eye in that way she did when she knew she was pissing him off. It was only half working, now that he knew he’d rattled her, but he hated that she could pull herself up and keep challenging him.

“How did you know who I was?” she demanded, her chin back up in that Princess way, looking down on her kidnappers like they were peasants who’d stumbled across her path. It was an act. Didn’t make Bellamy hate her any less.

“How stupid do you think we are?” Murphy fired back, leaning back in his seat, wincing when his shoulder touched the chair.

“I bet you’d have a field day with that question, huh, Princess?” Bellamy said, leaning forwards on his elbows across the table. It forced her back, a sneer creasing her brows, turning her lips down, as he pushed his face closer to hers. He found he rather liked pushing her buttons, and smirked, revelling in her reciprocating hatred of him. “Did you really think we’d rob the biggest drug lord in Tennessee’s warehouse without doing our research first?”

“He’s not a dru-”

The outburst died on Clarke’s lips at the look on Bellamy’s face. He pushed the bag towards her with his foot. “Do you need to see the evidence again, Princess?”

If possible, her sneer deepened. She settled back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, glaring at him like a child he’d just told couldn’t have ice cream. He was used to children, but she still surprised him, no fear, no shock. She took in everything he and Murphy said without disbelief, almost a clinical dissection. It made him feel analysed, like she was trying to learn him, and he hated it. His glee at riling her up fled him and he straightened up, doing his best to appear threatening, a feat while the three of them sat around a picnic table at a cheap diner with food in those stupid red baskets.

“Point is, we know everything about your life. You, Kane, mommy dearest.” Her jaw clenched, the true depth of his knowledge of her hitting home. Bellamy felt some of his power returning. “And if you don’t want anything to happen to them the same way something caused daddy number one to go bye bye, I suggest you stop giving us your prissy little Princess crap and start co-operating.”

He could feel Murphy’s eyes on him. He focused on ignoring them as he held Clarke’s seething gaze. He needed Clarke to co-operate so they could get back to the Barns.

She held his eye, the blue of her iris so cold he wouldn’t be surprised if she was mentally plotting his death. She reached for her milkshake again, deliberate and slow. Bellamy surged across the table and slapped it out of her hand. Her glare held his as the plastic cup clattered to the ground, vanilla milkshake spilled all across the table, and that pissed him off more than he thought possible.

“Get up,” he snapped, getting to his feet. “We’re moving on from here.”

“Where to?” Murphy asked, gingerly rising from his seat. He went to sling his backpack onto his right shoulder, remembered, and readjusted it to the left one.

“We can’t go back yet. Too much heat,” Bellamy said.

“Back to where?” Clarke asked, stubbornly remaining in her seat. She had to crane her head all the way back to keep Bellamy’s eye.

“None of your business,” Bellamy snapped, pulling his jacket on.

“Back to the Barns?” Clarke asked, her glare turned smug smirk, like she’d figured out some grand puzzle.

Bellamy rounded on her chair, and he was glad to see her tense up as he put his hands on the arms and leaned over. He could feel her breathe pick up against his cheek. Her eyes avoided his until he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “None. Of your. Business.” He let her go with a forceful shove and stood up straight. Murphy handed him the other bag and he slung it across his back. He then looked back down at Clarke. “Get up.”

She didn’t move, still holding on to the last of her defiance. Bellamy wondered how long she could of stayed alive if someone else had kidnapped her, someone who would actually act on the dark thoughts Bellamy got when she was being a particularly stubborn pain in his ass. Again, it made it feel like she knew him, knew he wouldn’t act on those thoughts, pushed him like he riled her because she knew she could and enjoyed it. He knew she enjoyed making the poor feel small, it would be one of her many heritages. The thought reignited his simmering anger. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

“Unless you want us to forcefully get those keys and drive off in daddy Kane’s car, move!”

Clarke turned on him, hatred in her blue eyes. He’d only seen that kind of hate one time before in his life and just the memory of it rocked him for a moment.

It was enough to let Clarke wrench her arm free from his grip. “It’s not Kane’s car,” she hissed, then stepped away. She held the glare for a few moments longer, then turned and stomped off towards the car. She took the driver’s seat again, slouching down into it in an obvious refusal to be moved, but Bellamy couldn’t find it in him to be annoyed.

Murphy opened his mouth to speak. Bellamy silenced him with one hand. “We head out of Tennessee,” he said. He let the weariness of the day fill his voice, now that Clarke was out of earshot. She was taxing, he knew that from raising a eleven year old. He pulled Clarke’s cell phone out of his back pocket. He’d felt it buzzing almost the entire way through their chat. Six missed calls and eleven texts. Fuck. He slid it back into his back pocket.“We find a place to lay low until the heat dies down. I know a few places we can head. Hopefully they won’t be the kind who ask questions.”

“They’ll be looking for her, you know that, right?” Murphy said. He was watching Clarke, the only sign of his distress being his white knuckles as he gripped his bag strap.

Bellamy had no doubt that he was still thinking about Emori. He poked fun, but Murphy was different, more talkative and less antagonistic when she was around. Hell, even when he just thought about her. It killed Bellamy to be doing this to his friend, but they had no choice. “I know. It’ll bring more attention.”

Murphy grunted. “What do we do about it?”

“We find a place to lay low. We keep her fed. Let her run her mouth. Let her think she knows what she’s doing, that she could get out of this on her own...”

Murphy raised an eyebrow, not liking the idea of playing babysitter. “Then...?”

Bellamy turned his head from watching Clarke, meeting Murphy’s eye. “Then we give her back her phone and ditch her somewhere far away, and while the heat is going to get her, we make our way back to the Barns, grab what we can then get out of there.”

* * *

 

Lexa’s eyes felt like they were going to melt out of her skull. She’d been staring at the computer screen for almost an hour, reading and re-reading the same rap-sheet over and over. As far as she could tell, this Bellamy Blake was a pretty normal guy. He’d had a few knocks on his record as a kid, but what kid didn’t get into trouble now and then? They were nothing big: misdemeanours, one act of vandalism he claimed on his record was accidental and the occasional public disturbance. Nothing about it screamed mass shooter to Lexa. There was none of the tale tell signs she’d learned at the academy. In fact, the weirdest part of his record was that all activity went dark after he’d turned seventeen, like a switch had been flipped and he was riding the good life. His record stated it was just him and a little sister by the name of Octavia, so it wasn’t hard for Lexa to put two and two together.

Lexa wished she could believe in the good of the world, but she was a detective. Her job was to find the reason for the bad.

She leant back from the screen, rubbing her eyes. She’d tried calling the first contact on his sheet, Octavia, but after two rings it had gone to voicemail. She supposed that was a smart thing for the kid to do, not answering an unknown number, plus going to see the girl would give her something to do, even if the address listed was in the middle of nowhere. She’d pulled Octavia’s record after figuring out the connection, and hers was even stranger than her brothers. There was nothing to it, no information at all from date of birth to dental records, until the age of ten. Lexa didn’t know what the story was there, but maybe finding out from the sister herself could lead her to the older Blake.

“You’re still in here, Krews?” It was Indra, another detective and one of the only ones Lexa could really stand. “How long has it been?”

“How long since I got back from the market scene?” Lexa replied, stretching her arms above her head. Her shoulder’s popped with a satisfying click.

Indra shook her head. “If only the cops here worked half as hard as you, they’d stop giving you a hard time.”

“Or just ride me even harder.” Lexa knew as soon as she’d said it how that had sounded, and she didn’t need to look up to know the look Indra was giving her. She cleared her throat. “What did you need, Indra? I’m a little busy on the Market case.”

Indra took in a deep breath. “Actually, that’s what I’m here about. Anya wants you off that case.”

“What?” Lexa snapped, jumping out of her chair.

Indra held up her hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t shoot the messenger. She wants you on another assignment. Something abo-”

Lexa didn’t let her finish, storming out of the records room and towards Anya’s office. It meant going through what their force called ‘the Bull Pen’. It was where their detectives had their desks. Lexa’s was at the back, crowded between the snack machine and the water fountain, so she was always getting distracted by Cheeto dusted cops wanting Butterfingers. The myth was that the higher ranking detective, the closer you were to the head of the Bull Pen, which was only a few feet from Anya’s office. But the detective at that desk was an idiot named Shumway who hadn’t closed a case by himself in years, so Lexa was going to keep thinking of it as a myth. She marched through the walkway between the columns of desks. Some other detectives were milling around at their desks, and when they saw her, the subtle began to whisper, the imbecilic began to Ohh and Ahh like a group of kids watching their friend get busted. She ignored them all, storming straight into Anya’s office without knocking.

To her credit, Anya didn’t look surprised in the least. Not much could be said for the light brunet woman sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk. Lexa ignored her, coming to stand by the corner of the desk.

“What’s this I hear about you taking me off the market case?” Lexa demanded, arms folded across her chest.

Anya took off her glasses and placed them on the sheet of paper she’d been reading before Lexa had interrupted her. “I see Indra found you.”

Lexa clenched her teeth. “Yes. While I was the only one trying to get a lead on the Market Case.”

Anya was undeterred by the deflection. “Good.” She gestured to the woman sitting opposite her. “This is Abigail Griffin. Her daughter has been missing for five hours now and she wants us to do something about it.”

Lexa shot the woman a look. Despite the obvious stress weighing down her features she was straight backed, so well kept not a hair was out of place. Lexa wouldn’t of been able to tell anything was wrong if it wasn’t for the wrecked expression on the poor woman’s face. She looked back at Anya, forcing her tone to be less frustrated. “You know police can’t get involved until the subject has been missing for over twenty four hours, Captain, then we file a missing persons.”

Anya’s eyebrow raised at the change in formality. “I know the protocol, detective, but Mrs. Griffin is convinced this is special circumstances,” she said, then gestured to the woman in the chair.

Mrs. Griffin took her cue and stood up. She was a good few inches taller than Lexa, and the way literally looked down at her had Lexa thinking she was used to that in more ways than one. “One of my husband’s security informed me that she was taken.”

There was no shake to her voice, like there had been in Roma’s mothers when Lexa had interviewed her, and her daughter hadn’t been in any real danger. “Would he be able to give us a statement?” Lexa asked, making sure to keep any hint at personal involvement out of her wording.

Mrs. Griffin hesitated, shooting Anya a look. “My husband and his business partner prefer to keep any personal relationships out of their work. The boy who told me is a friend of my daughters, but he would prefer not to be implicated.”

Lexa raised an eyebrow at the woman. “A witness that doesn’t want to be a witness?”

“We can offer amenity,” Anya said before Lexa could shut down the woman’s plea. “He can come in, make a statement, and no one will know who he is, unless this becomes something bigger, I’m afraid.”

Mrs. Griffin hesitated again. Lexa rolled her eyes at the woman’s indecision. She had work to be doing and her time was being wasted by this neurotic housewife. She cleared her throat to regain the woman’s attention. “Mrs. Griffin, do you believe your daughter’s been kidnapped?” she asked.

The tone seemed to work. Mrs. Griffin straightened up, all hints of doubt gone from her face. “Absolutely."

“And is your daughter’s life worth this boys statement? Because we can’t move further without waiting the twenty four hours without it.”

This time there was no hesitation. Mrs. Griffin nodded and pulled out her phone. At first glance her face fell, like she was expecting, or hoping, to see something. She pulled on that blank professionalism Lexa had walked in on back on in an instant. “I’ll give him a call.”

She left the room, phone already at her ear. Lexa let her breath out the moment she knew Mrs. Griffin was out of ear shot.

Anya was looking up at her from her desk, leaning back in her chair. “Nicely handled,” she said. “She’ll appreciate that directness in time. It helps get things done.”

“You still can’t be serious about the case transfer?” Lexa said, turning to face her sitting captain. “There is no case here. The daughter’s probably gone out with her friends. It’s nothing.”

“Then you’ll be back on the Market case in no time,” Anya said. She leant forwards, resting her elbows on the desk and linking her fingers together. “Or, you’ll be dealing with the kidnapping of a very successful business tycoon’s daughter. Either way, you get a good case for your record.”

Lexa scowled at Anya, preparing another argument. This was a case for one of the other detectives, the ones who would jump at the chance to do a job that demanded half assing. As if sensing her impending resistance, Anya sighed and stood up. She rounded the corner of the desk, coming to stand beside Lexa while looking out at Mrs. Griffin, who looked to be having an intense conversation on the phone.

“Krews... Lexa, that is a mother who is worried about her daughter. She’s willing to risk embarrassment and stop something bad from happening before it could start. She’s frantic, and like any frantic mother, she needs the best. Which is why, when she came in, I told her we could give it to her, and I gave her you.”

Lexa looked up at Anya, her annoyance fading slightly. Anya didn’t smile at her, Anya hardly smiled at all. But the understanding and trust in her eyes were the closest Lexa had ever seen to one. It was an expression so rare, Lexa wanted to take a picture of it. Instead she sighed, bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Fine. But the minute I prove this is a dud, you hand the case to one of those morons out there, and let me get back to actually doing my job.”

Anya nodded once, sharp and deliberate, then looked up past Lexa’s head in time for the office door to open. Mrs. Griffin stood in the doorway, nothing about her looking the least but apologetic for wasting their time or possibly interrupting their conversation.

“He’s agreed to come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, drop me a comment to let me know how you're liking my work!

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to read and leave a comment! Comments are much appreciated!


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